Life is absurd. And life is precious. Family is a lot of both.

Monday, December 22, 2014

One Less

This year we will celebrate Christmas for the first time without my mother-in-law. We lost her after a swift battle with lung cancer this past summer and are still getting used to speaking about her in the past tense. She was a quirky and boisterous part of so many of our holidays that it seems incomprehensible to plan gift lists and menus and phone calls home without including her.

She was the first grandparent our children have lost. Lucky kids to have held on to so many of the grands for so long. Our oldest kids have never had a Christmas without shopping for Memaw (an avid collector of all things Elvis, she was usually the easiest to please). Our youngest, who will likely not remember her at all as he was barely three when she died, is already being coached by his older siblings about their grandmother’s famous cinnamon rolls and her borderline-obsessive devotion to the Denver Broncos.

Grief seems at its most heart breaking in December. I suppose it’s because we are knee-deep in family traditions more than at any other time of the year. The hole left behind by someone missing looms larger and deeper when we unwrap special ornaments or bake a traditional recipe or take the year’s photos knowing that there is one less than the year before.

Even if you have your own quirky relative still with you, or you’ve welcomed your Soldier home for the holidays, or you have your home so stuffed with family that there’s hardly room for one more, you are still likely missing someone. And whether it is death or deployment or disagreement or the details of a busy life that is keeping you apart, it stings.

I imagine Mary and Joseph could fully relate to missing the ones they loved. After all, the very first Christmas found them far from home, misunderstood, alone but for each other, and no doubt longing for the peace and tradition and warm embraces of home. Yet they received a gift unsurpassed that night and, because of that gift, they heard the angels sing.

I could not compose a more touching prayer for all of us than Edmund Sears when he wrote “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” in 1850. No matter who or what you are missing this year, may you “rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.”

Merry Christmas.

Friday, December 5, 2014

If Only In My Dreams

A friend recently returned home from a 10-month deployment in Afghanistan, just in time for Christmas. Is there a more joyful time of year for a reunion than the freezing days of December? He pulled off surprising his youngest at her elementary school and was featured on the local news, which was nice because we are all desperate for some happy news these days.

The whole thing made me think about our own reunion-after-deployment and it seems impossible that it was almost a decade ago.

Christmas 2004 found us celebrating on three different continents. The kids and I remained at our home in Germany while Dad deployed to Iraq in September. I wasn't sure I could pull off Christmas (alone and eight-months pregnant with #5) so I decided to fly us home to Texas for the holidays. My husband was less than enthusiastic. As in he stated, "No way. You're not doing it."

Christmas 2004 in Tikrit.
Thing is he was more than 2,000 miles away and couldn't do much about it. I don't usually just defy my partner in life without some profitable discussion. But I did in December 2004.

Among the long list of crazy stupid things I've done, this is right up there.

Flying to the States out of Germany is no small thing. But when you live two hours from the airport, have four children (one still in diapers), more luggage than can fit in one car, and a seriously-pregnant's nuts.

I honestly thought the folks at the airline would take pity on me. Poor dear. This brave military wife is battling her way back home to provide a magical holiday for her many, many children. We oughta upgrade her to first class just to show our appreciation. 

That's not exactly how it turned out.

Christmas 2004 in Marktbergl
(before the insane flight).
Instead I had to bustle us all in, lugging luggage, and stand in a long line. I didn't even get a smile from the grumpy agent. In fact, I'm pretty sure she rolled her eyes as she clicked through five tickets. I swear she looked at me like I was crazy. As did the security guards. And the gate agents. And the flight attendants who directed our circus to the very last row of the plane.

By the time I got everyone seated and all carryons stowed away, I popped into the airplane bathroom for a quick visit before takeoff. As I washed my hands I caught my reflection in the mirror and looked at MYSELF like I was crazy. But there was no backing out at that point.

I don't remember much about the eight-hour flight except that the toddler spilled a full cup of dietCoke all over her older sister, causing both of them to burst into tears. And the various crayons, pretzels and toys that were dropped onto the floor could not be retrieved because have I mentioned I was eight-months pregnant? And no one slept until the last 30 minutes. Which means everyone was disheveled and sour as we disembarked and stood in line at customs for another 35 minutes. I think I hated the airline, my husband, the Army, and pretty much everyone I could think of at that moment. Not my finest hour.

But God bless my family. The moment we were through customs, I collapsed into my mother's waiting hug and turned over all planning, discipline, effort and thought to them. For two weeks I did nothing but just show up.

At several points during that rough trip I doubted it was worth it. I'd have been better off in Germany with just the kids, I thought. It wouldn't have been that bad to have Daddy gone for Christmas.

But when the phone rang on December 25th at my sister's house because, by some miracle, he'd been able to find a phone line and call to wish everyone Merry was awful. The kids cried. I cried. He cried. I knew I didn't have it in me to pick up the pieces all by myself. Again, it was grandparents and cousins to the rescue. A whole lot of Christmas silliness (that's the year our 6-year-old led the family Christmas dinner prayer wearing his Darth Vader voice-changing helmet) helped redeem the day. No doubt we made memories that year. It's certainly one I will never forget.

And forever after I will deeply appreciate every Christmas spent with my sweetie, a house full of kids, my wonderful family, and airline personnel who find it within themselves to offer even the tiniest of smiles to the craziest of travelers.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

A Fairy Tale 60 Years in the Making

They say, If it seems too good to be true then it probably is.Probably. But not always. This is the story of a happily ever after that is as true as true can be.

At age 17, Betty King enrolled at Southern Methodist University as a music major. In the first months on campus, she met a fellow music major named Bob Skinner. They had several mutual friends and spent lots of time together. Bob liked Betty an awful lot, but since she was dating his best friend, he contented himself with just being pals.

After graduation, Betty married her beau and Bob found a pretty wife. Life unfolded for both of them as life often doeswith love, regret, happiness, heartache, victory and defeat. They kept in touch over the years, attending New Years Eve parties as young couples and, later, meeting up occasionally to enjoy a symphony concert and reconnecting each year through Christmas cards.

The years passed as Betty enjoyed a long and happy career as a beloved music teacher in the citys school district. Bob put aside his music career to pursue pharmacy and established a successful business. Each of the families grew and splintered as time went by due to divorce, death and growing children. The Christmas cards and occasional visits continued, honoring what remained a deep and lasting friendship.

As each reached retirement age, life toughened. Betty left her teaching position to be the primary caretaker for her aging parents. Her daily activities shrank to what was necessary within the household and telephone calls became her main source of a social life. Bob was dealing with the cancer deaths of both his first wife and then his second. Talking to Betty was a comfort.

Shortly after the death of Bettys mother and Bobs second wife, the college buddies planned a face-to-face meeting to catch up in person, reconnect as old friends, and offer the kind of solace that can only come from an old and trusted companion.

And sparks flew.

Sixty years after the fresh, young students first met, they met again as weathered, wisened old people. And they fell in love in a way that only the deeply experienced can appreciate.

On August 9, 2014, in a church decorated with SMUs red and blue, Betty and Bob stood before 100 guests and pledged to be true for the rest of their lives. Afterward they posed for photos, cut a beautiful white wedding cake, accepted hugs and congratulations, spent the night in a downtown Dallas bridal suite, and then drove away for a two-week honeymoon in the Tennessee hills.

The most unlikely of fairy tales sometimes does come true. My Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob are proof. May their happy ending last forever after.

Monday, August 25, 2014

A Chilly Phenomenon


The ALS ice bucket challenge has been an amazing social media phenomenon to observe. To say it's swept the nation is an understatement as everyone from my next-door neighbor to former President George W. Bush has taken to video with some ice water, some words, and some money for research.

It's the stuff marketing and fundraising people dream about. Who can predict what will capture the public's attention and motivate them to give?

And people really are giving. That's the more amazing part of it, I think. People can star in their own "watch me dump water on my head" show for whatever reason. But to actually write the check or click and donate is a much bigger deal. Media accounts say the donations are about $40 million more than the average August. $40 million. 

The most interesting part of the movement, at least on my newsfeed, has been the varying reactions from participants and non-participants. On the one hand, it's fun and it's for a great cause and who are you to throw cold water (pun intended) on a good deed by questioning the filmer/donor's motivation. Does she truly care about ALS? Is he really going to donate? Don't they know about embyonic stem cell research? 

I get it.

I did not want to do the challenge. Mostly because I try to avoid silly things in public. Also because we already donate just about all we can afford on a monthly basis to very worthy causes. Also because I do have very strong feelings about embryonic stem cell research. (Why? Read this.) Or here's the synopsis - 
  • Embryonic stem cells are “starter cells” that can be coaxed into becoming any of the specialized cells of the body, meaning they are “pluripotent.” Embryonic stem cells are derived from eggs fertilized in the laboratory, not in a woman’s body.
If you believe, as do I, that human life begins at fertilization, then you believe that lives are being created and then disposed of for the sole purpose of medical research. If you don't believe that life begins at fertilization then you probably don't see what the big deal is. But of course you'll respect the belief of others and why it motivates them to find another adult stem cell-only research project. 

Side note: from what I've read, the ALS Association  allows you to state your preference for your donation to avoid their embryonic stem cell research project and go solely to the others. It's hard to find that option on its donation page however. So most of the anti-embryonic stem cell crowd has chosen to donate to other places that also support ALS research.

So I had my reasons to be glad that I'd flown under the radar and not been challenged. But then I was. So was my husband. Same day. We thought we'd ignore it. But that seemed, well, rude and snobbish. Also our children were ecstatic about the idea of dumping water on both of us.

Since I was in a dress (and I just hate to change clothes more than once per day), my always-funny husband declared he'd put on a coat and tie and we'd do a classy version. So we did. The kids howled. We wrote our check to the John Paul II Research Institute.

And then my husband said, "Let's upload it to Facebook."

Wait. What? Whoa!

Because, like I said, I don't like looking silly. Especially on a public forum. And this video is silly. Not so much because of the water (and the ensuing hair don't), but mostly because I have my hand on my hip!

I don't know why I have my hand on my hip. I was just striking a comfortable pose. But I kind of find the hand-on-the-hip-to-make-my-arm-look-smaller-in-this-photo fad just, well, silly. So I never do it. Except on this ice bucket video. Argh. So silly.

And then it hit me.

Many of the nay-sayers of the whole ice bucket challenge are poking fun (if that's what you want to call it) at the motivation of people doing it. It's all just so self-centered, they proclaim -- "Look at me! Look at what I did! I did something silly and now I'm giving money!"

I get it.

But if, in the end, one minute or one dollar is focused on helping someone else, that someone else couldn't care less what the motivation was, just that help is coming.

So I stepped away from my own self-centeredness and posted our own silly video.

"I did something silly and now I'm giving money!"

That's about right.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Reading Her Story

We all write a story with the way we live, what we choose to do and say, sometimes what we choose not to do and say. And we never know who is paying attention or how they might be affected by what they see.

There is a woman I knew in Georgia. We picked up our children from school at the same time each day and always visited in a group on the parking lot. Her two older children shared classrooms with two of my kids and she had a curly-topped toddler in tow each day too. I never got to know her beyond the parking lot and a few field trips and birthday parties. But she was one of those people who caught my attention because of her story. 

She had a radiant smile and great laugh and wasn’t afraid to show up in her workout clothes and no make up if that’s the kind of day she’d had. She was a constant volunteer and good listener and the kind of mom who seemed to never tire of swinging her toddler around and around just to hear her giggle. She was the kind of mom, the kind of person, I wanted to be.

Then life brought us back to Missouri and we stayed Facebook friends and I watched as she trained to run a marathon and I continued to be impressed with how she was living her life. I was reading her story and she probably never knew.

Then one day she posted about having some annoying health issues. Then about having tests run and her optimism that everything would be great and she’d run another race soon. Then the diagnosis came and it was colon cancer at age 40. She wrote about how she told her children, about how her relationship with her husband went to a new level, about how she hated relying on others to do the things she had always done for her family and community. About how she hated her body. And then loved it. About how her faith was challenged, then strengthened, then challenged - an ongoing cycle.

It’s impossible not to put ourselves in the shoes of others when we read their stories. I think my friend knew that. So she began to write beautiful journal pieces about living with disease and treatment and hope and disappointment and frustration and gratitude and anger and wisdom and all the things that people with terminal illnesses face. They were tough chapters she would never have chosen to write, but she wrote them with dignity and an openness that was riveting.

She died last month. The end came swiftly, at least it seemed to those of us on the fringe of her life, but she had gained almost two full years with those she loved by fighting hard to do whatever it took to get through just one more day. In the end her closest friends and her husband took over her journal page and shared her last thoughts. 

Among those was the poem by Emily Dickinson her husband read at her funeral:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.

I am very grateful that I got to read her story. She lived, and died, in hope and beauty and remains the kind of mom, the kind of person, I want to be.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Right on, Target

I don't like whiny bloggers so I try to steer clear of being one myself. Which means I typically stuff my negative feelings down down down. Where they pile up until I can't take it and then I explode all over my sweet family on what we might call "one of Mom's bad days". Not all that good or healthy or worth reading about.

However, I hereby suspend my self-imposed ban on whining in writing to bring up something that I really think should be a national topic of conversation: re-stocking the big box stores.

I have noticed over the last several years that both Target (my big box store of choice) and my weekly grocery store have taken to re-stocking the shelves at all hours and with extreme enthusiasm. This means I often come around a corner with my over-stuffed buggy (here we could talk about the different regions of the country and how they refer to the shopping cart/basket/buggy, but Texans call it a buggy, ya'll) and I find myself stuck between the shelves, an employee, and a huge cart piled with cardboard boxes.

I am overall congenial and long-suffering (unless it is "one of Mom's bad days") so the first few dozen times I experienced this inconvenience I smiled at the shelf stockers and apologized for intruding. Until one day. When I wondered why the heck I was apologizing for being in THEIR way while I was trying to spend MY money in THEIR store.

Nevertheless I continued to shop early mornings (right after school drop off is my preferred time) because, really, who can fight the need for Target? I tried fueling myself for the restocking obstacle course by stopping at the in-store Starbucks first. That kind of backfired as my intake of coffee directly influenced my need to get done shopping so I could visit the bathroom.

A hyped-up mom with a full bladder and a busy schedule is not the relaxed shopper who smiles and apologizes to the employees in her way.

Which is why the other morning, with three children in tow and trying to navigate five separate aisles that were partially blocked, all while juggling my hot latte, I snapped.

A red-shirted employee innocently asked, "Are you finding everything okay?"

I snipped, "Not really since it's so hard to reach around you."

Poor guy quickly looked away and I'm pretty sure he used his handy walkie-talkie to alert the other re-stockers with the "watch out for the Code Crazy [otherwise known as "Mom's Bad Day"] on aisle 11" button.

I passed three more re-stockers on my way to the cashier and not a single one made eye contact.

Finally ready to check out and go, after negotiating with my 3-year-old over the need for multiple Chapsticks, the manager of the store approached me. To tell me that my cart was too full for the return/exchange lane (which, by the way, reads "return/exchange and check out").

Rules follower that I am, I kindly moved my full cart and three children to another lane. I almost apologized for the incident until I remembered just how much of MY money I was about to spend in THEIR store.

So I turned around and told the manager the following: "It is all but impossible to shop with so many re-stockers on your floor. I think you should know how frustrating it is."

His reply, "You should come later in the day because we start re-stocking at 6 a.m. and often don't get done until noon."

Really? My fault for shopping early. When it's most convenient for me and their doors are open for customers.

He continued, "We've had to cut back on hours so it takes a little longer."

Really really? I spend so much money in your store (as do most of my friends) that it's hard to stomach that we must pay further by stepping around those huge re-stocking carts in order to help your bottom line.

I just smiled at him. I really am a nice person and get a pit in my stomach whenever I do officially complain.

We headed out to the car after paying. He offered to help me unload my cart at the curb. I declined.

Almost to my car, I turned to see him running up to me. On his lips was an apology for my inconvenience. In his hand was a coupon to reward me, I guess, for speaking up.

It's for $3.

Really really really?

I'll be back to Target before the week is over, because I know it's the same at other big-box stores. And I need stuff. A lot. But I'll go later on a Tuesday (best time according to Mr. Manager) and enjoy the quiet, open aisles.

I'll have my $3 coupon and, just to be on the safe side, I'll spend it on a coffee at the in-store Starbucks. I'm sure that will make everything all better.


Thursday, June 26, 2014

The Snakes of June

Ah, June. The season when the flowers bloom, the sun shines long, the birds chirp more than ever, and I don’t notice any of it because I am too busy looking around for snakes. Why? Because years ago, the first June we lived in this home, I was practically murdered on my own front porch by a deadly black snake poised to reach out, wrap itself around my innocent neck, and squeeze the life out of me before calmly slithering on to find its next victim.

Sure, common knowledge states that black snakes are “good” snakes, that they will not attack a human and certainly could not kill one even if they tried, that they are completely harmless at worst and helpful at best, willing to stalk and devour all those pesky mice and bugs but leave us people alone.


I’m telling you that black snake laid in wait for me. On my front porch. Hanging right at eye level, where it had wrapped itself securely in my pretty flowered wreath.

You shuddered, didn’t you? It was HANGING IN MY WREATH!

In hindsight, we suspect that the snake was climbing its way up to the swallow’s nest in the rafters of our front porch. I should point out that I was not in favor of letting the swallows build their nest there. (And this was before I knew they would attract the deadly devil snake.) My soft-hearted husband did not want to knock the nest down and risk killing any innocent, pre-born birdies. So he left the nest, which enticed the snake, which climbed my door, and attempted to attack me.

It is clear who is to blame for the entire traumatic incident.

Lucky for me a brave neighbor was home (because the spouse sworn to love and protect me was not of course) and came to my rescue. The snake was apprehended and given the death penalty. Once bludgeoned and sent on to snake heaven (just kidding…no such thing), my neighbor offered to dispose of the body. But I stopped him because I knew my family would never believe me when I told them the story. I asked him to coil up the dead snake right by the door. I’m a little bit sadistic when it comes to soft-hearted husbands and big-mouthed kids.

There were varying reactions to the snake. After the initial surprise, my husband was shocked that it really was more than five feet long. My littlest ones were both intrigued and horrified to have such an up-close viewing. The eldest was distraught that the snake had to die (even when I told her it was convicted of trespassing and attempted murder).

In the end I think the experience served as some good exposure therapy for me. I had to throw away the wreath (and to this day my door is bare), I avoided using the front entry for several weeks, and I had goose bumps every time I thought about it that entire summer. But eventually the horror lessened and by the next year, I was not nearly as upset when another black snake came to visit.

Possibly because I’d become less afraid. Possibly because that time the snake decided to crawl out from under the front stoop at exactly the moment my husband, who had found my front-porch experience so hilarious, bent down to tie his shoe. Both man and serpent were surprised enough by each other that I’m fairly sure I heard two shrieks, and I learned it’s much more difficult to be terrified when you’re laughing so hard.

I've worked up to hanging a wreath on the INSIDE
of my front door. If I ever find a snake there,
I'll just have to move. To Ireland.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Golden Anniversary

My parents celebrated 50 years of marriage on June 5. That’s a lot of day-to-day-ness—exactly 18,262 days of sharing a house, a bed, a table, a garage, a bank account, a family, a future.
You could call my parents’ long relationship a beautiful American love story. And you’d be right in a way. But real life is not exactly like the movies or the novels. Though romance and drama and emotional mountaintops are all delicious, any long-married couple will tell you that those things are not part of the winning formula that gets you to a Golden 50. Because odds are that the longer you’re married, the mortgage statements and insurance forms will stack up faster than the heartfelt love letters. The evenings of mowing the lawn or rocking the crying baby or repairing the leaky toilet will occur way more often than the candlelit dinners out on the town. The “Can you make it home in time for the game?” and “Did you put gas in the car?” conversations replace most of the love-longing, eye-gazing romantic proclamations of courtship.

June 5, 1964

Depressing? Not to me. Because here’s the thing. I imagine my mom was pretty easy to fall in love with. She was a stunning brunette, an ambitious student, and a flirty-fun girl always up for adventure. Think of Gidget, but on the Texas plains instead of the beach. My dad was a hunk in a baseball uniform, driven to succeed as he worked his way through college, and the kind of guy who figured out a way to buy his bride a brand new car just because he knew she’d love it. They were young and optimistic and fresh and easy to adore.

Fast forward several decades. They’ve both gone gray. Dad limps on a bad knee. Mom fusses about wanting the roof fixed but fusses more when he climbs up the two-story ladder on his own. They have three children, all married and who gave them a total of 11 grandkids. There is a constant stream of birthday parties, sporting events, graduations, and other projects for them to attend and assist. They have defined “retirement” as raising cattle, tending goats, tutoring local students weekly, extensively researching family genealogy, and building a new family home. That’s just a regular week for them. On any given day at their ranch they have wrestled flat tires, ornery calves, rattlesnakes, or a cranky water pump.

So while maybe they used to take long walks hand-in-hand and slow dance in the kitchen, now evenings together mean two glasses of iced tea and a Fox News Channel special. The normalcy of life has distilled their commitment to each other into a very simple formula. You + me = always. Life isn’t always pretty or easy or screen-worthy. But spending all the moments, both wonderful and horrible, side by side is what writes a beautiful story. Choosing to stick together when it might be easier to drift apart is what creates a love song worth singing.

I realize now that never having to worry about them letting go of each other was the biggest gift they gave me as a child. I’m still their kid and it’s still a gift.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. I am forever grateful that you said, “I do.” And then you did.

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Summertime -- in 15 Phrases

I really do love having all of my little ones home (from college to preschool) all summer. I do. I really do.

But I know what's coming:

Summer family memories are the best. (This was taken before a
two-hour ride in the car and after a stern warning about getting wet
since we had no dry clothes.)

1. There's nothing to eat in here.

2. Why do I have to go to bed when the sun is still up?

3. I don't need a bath, I played in the sprinkler.
Actually, skipping a bath after playing in soap and water is
completely justifiable.
4. We're just going to shoot off a few fireworks, but we'll be careful.

It's always fun until someone has to call the ambulance.

5. The car's out of gas.

6. I just mowed last week.

7. I can't find a job. No one's hiring.

8. I'm hungry. And so are my six friends who are with me.

You never know how many friends your kids have until it's
lunchtime on a summer day.

9. It's too hot to go outside.

10. I don't know who left the water hose on.

11. Mom, look! I'm pretty sure it's not poisonous.

12. Could you be a littler quieter in the morning? I'm trying to sleep in.

Okay, it's hard to stay irritated for long
when they look like sleeping angels.

13. My teacher was nicer than you.

14. But why can't we go to Disney World? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

15. I'm bored. Wait, what? I didn't say I'm bored. Noooooo!

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Dear Graduates

How many times in the last few days have you said, “I can’t believe it’s finally here!”? It’s finally your turn to wear the funny hats and process in with your class and listen to the speeches and cross the stage and wave your diploma and smile for a million photos. It’s The Class of 2014, baby, and no one is more excited than you…baby.

What you see.
 Please understand that though you are tall and mature and practically grown up in every way, all we really see as you’re walking that stage is a bunch of babies. Preschoolers. Gap-toothed elementary students. Awkward middle schoolers. Eager freshmen. Anything but the adults you just turned into while we blinked.

What I see.
We may cry. You’ll just have to try to understand. What’s happening on Sunday is a milestone. You’re a smart bunch so you can easily define milestone. The thing is, when it’s your own milestone you can recognize and celebrate it. But you keep on moving forward so it’s quickly behind you and you are focused on something new ahead. For those who love you, who have raised you, it’s a marker that boldly proclaims, “Things will never the same.” Ever.

You were tiny once. Then you crawled and we put away the dangerous things. Then you walked and we locked the cabinets and doors. Then you ran and we bought more bandaids. This was about the time you let go of our hands and went to school for the first time. You learned to read and didn’t ask us for bedtime stories quite as often. Then you started playing sports or joined clubs and you quit coming home right after school. Then you learned to drive and, well, we wondered aloud sometimes if you even still lived here. (Your full laundry hamper and our empty pantry shelves assured us you were still in residence even if we never saw you.)

These were all good things. Of course we wanted you to grow and become and do the things you were meant to do. So we celebrated each new milestone with a smile and a cheer. But as each one passed, we realized those milestones were scattered along a path that was taking you away. “Things will never be the same.” the milestones declared. And we wept while we cheered.

Which is exactly what we will do on Sunday.  You just grew up. And in many wild and wonderful ways, things will never be the same.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Space Invaders

We live in a pretty regular-sized house on a regular-sized lot. I am very content with our little spot in the city limits. However, other family members lobby occasionally to move “out in the country” because some want horses, chickens, gardens big enough to justify a tractor, and would like to walk out to get the mail wearing only underwear and mud boots.

Or, maybe, just boots.

I’d be okay with all of that but I have a hard time getting enthusiastic about the idea of a bigger place. It’s not that I don’t love the beauty of nature and the gorgeous views and the quiet isolation. I really enjoy visiting the homes of my friends who live on acreage. There is a serenity to the sweeping lawns, tree-lined lanes, and glimpses of wildlife out the kitchen window.

The issue is knowing that even acres and acres of home land will do nothing to add to the actual space in which I get to live. My children are, frankly, like a swarm of gnats. Where I go, they go. Swatting at them just stirs them up. Never mind that they have plenty of square footage in which to spread out and enjoy. It seems they prefer to be right next to me. Always.

Take our master bedroom. It is a small, cozy room just the right size for a bed, two comfy chairs and a table, a couple of bookcases and a dresser. I love this room and how it feels like a retreat for us from the busy, noisy world. My children, unfortunately, also love it. Age 2 to 21, their favorite spot is on the end of my bed, snuggled in our soft green comforter. They all have soft, comfy beds of their own. But they prefer to hang out in ours until kicked out. Our master bath is small-ish too. But I regularly find myself trying to curl or straighten or rinse and spit with more than one child underfoot. This in spite of the fact that they have two bathrooms to share between them. Gnats, I tell you.

I have one tiny spot at the end of our dining table that is my work space. I don’t have an actual office because all those soft, comfy beds and extra bathrooms take up a lot of room. My “office” is truly about five square feet of chair, table top, and a few small piles. Because of those piles and the various computer cords, I prefer to keep two- and four-legged creatures out of my little corner. I think this is not too much to ask. But my 2-year-old and our dogs seem to think that particular corner is prime play space. If my feet are not being used as mountains for various Matchbox cars, my power cord is being yanked out by tussling puppies. I cannot understand why these creatures have the entire house and yard in which to play (that’s where ALL THE TOYS ARE, by the way) yet prefer to play practically in my lap all day long.

It's been this way for years.
Maybe if we moved out to the country I could find a place to hide and get some work done Who am I kidding? They’d find me and come running. Very likely wearing only rubber boots and underwear.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Windows Into God's Love

Things like what I am about to describe have happened too many times for me to doubt that there really ought to be a patron saint of shopping. (There's not...yet...I checked.)

Work with me here.

I don't spend much money on myself. I've never been one to hide receipts or run up credit card bills while submitting the family to beans and hot dogs. (I do, however, have other faults and my kids would likely prefer franks and beans to some of the healthy choices I offer. But that's a different blog.) I am thrifty with a capital T and get a thrill out of finding just what we need at a bargain. I also understand going without when necessary.

Which is why we still have old, stained carpeting until we find exactly what we need at exactly what we need to pay. I'd also like to replace the old window valances with light, airy sheer white panels. And I'd really like to do it before we host a huge graduation party here in May. But if you've priced window treatments lately, you know three large windows will run up into the hundreds. With so many other graduation-related expenses (like, um, college), carpet and curtains were going to have to wait.

Which brings me to today.

Feeling the tiniest bit sorry for myself, I decided to poke around online and at least get an idea of what I'd want when the time came. I landed at JCPenney. They're having a sale. Which ends today. And includes 50% off of all curtains and 40% off of hardware. I loaded my virtual cart with everything I wanted for the windows and typed in the sale code and watched the total droppity drop to just about half of what it would have been. Pluuuuuuuuus free shipping!

But, happy as that made me, it is not the miracle of the story.

The miracle is that, after several weeks of haggling and filing reports, I finally received the Paypal refund on a prom dress that was ordered but never shipped. Which meant all but about $20 of my curtain total was SITTING THERE WAITING ON ME. (Shut up, husbands, that is too how it works. Though I fully realize it was my money to begin with, getting it back months later makes it feel like a special prize just for me.)

Every now and then, when something unexpected and lovely happens to one of my kids, I say, "Wow, God really does love you." I said it just yesterday when an unhappy bedhead thought we were out of waffles but I found a forgotten box in the back of the freezer.

Maybe the breakfast of your choice is your love language.

Maybe it's spiffing up the living room in time for a party.

Whatever it is, I legitimately believe that God chooses to speak that language now and then just to see us smile.

And I'm pretty sure Saint Whatever-Her-Name-Is is helping. It would be nice if she'd get together soon with Saint Whoever's-In-Charge-Of-College-Scholarships and work on some more nice surprises.

I do know this for sure. When the dusty, dated valances are down and the pretty white sheers are blowing in the breeze during the party, I will undoubtedly be reminded, "Wow, God really does love me."

Silly? Maybe. But God's working with me here.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Summer Work Hours

5:30 a.m.: Nudge the husband who missed his 5:00 a.m. alarm and remind him he wanted to get to work early today. Make coffee and pull out leftovers for lunch. Kiss him good-bye and sit down with first cup of coffee.

6:35 a.m.: Hear kid's alarm blaring for 10 minutes and finally go down to his room, turn off the alarm and lecture him (if that's him beneath the pile of pillows) about responsibility and eating a good breakfast before football practice. Head back up for a second cup of coffee. Find car keys in a hurry when he's running late and tells you he forgot to get a ride.

7:03 a.m.: Pour out the now-cold coffee and fix another cup. Sit down to check email. Hop up when the toddler starts yelling, "Mommeeeeee!" Change his wet pants. Toast the frozen waffles and find an episode of Imagination Movers quickly in order to get back to the still-barely-warm coffee.

8:30 a.m.: In come the grade-schoolers yawning after being up way too late last night. Offer cereal when they discover little brother ate the last of the frozen waffles.

10:00 a.m.: Finally take a shower.

11:30 a.m.: Look around and realize there are now seven kids in the house and they are all getting  hungry. Pop Cheese Pizzas #72-73 of the Summer into the oven and crack open Juice Box Case #103 of the Summer to feed them all.

1:00 p.m.: Realize the garden hose has been on full blast for the last 77 minutes. Muddy kids came inside 48 minutes ago.

2:00 p.m.: Discover the toddler is still napping. Debate whether to deal with him being up until 10 tonight or being cranky right now for having his nap interrupted. Decide upon the former and sit down with a new magazine.

2:03 p.m.: Growl at the muddy kids who shrieked by the toddler's bedroom door and awakened him. Deal with his crankiness until the next episode of Doc McStuffins comes on.

3:10 p.m.: Panic when the hamburger that was supposed to be defrosting in the fridge overnight is found still rock hard in the freezer. Locate a teenager to run to the store and buy two packages of hot dogs and hope there is a box of macaroni and cheese shoved in the pantry somewhere.

4:30 p.m:. Do the happy dance when kids are invited to swim with the family next door. Spend 30 minutes locating swimsuits, flip flops, and goggles that still have their lenses.

5:00 p.m.: Clean the kitchen to get ready for dinnertime..

5:15 p.m.: Lose it a little bit when the swimmers (who got bored/had a fight/want to watch TV) stream in the front door and drop wet everything in the hall.

5:30 p.m.: Whip up grilled hot dogs and macaroni.

5:35 p.m.: Stifle frustration when the kids tell you they're not hungry. They ate pizza at the pool.

6:30 p.m.: Locate the toddler by following the trail of sand from the backyard to the basement.

6:40 p.m.: Plop the grainy toddler into the tub and sweep up the sand.

6;50 p.m.:  Locate the toddler by following the trail of slippery bubbles.

7:00 p.m.: Wrestle the toddler into pajamas. Collapse in the rocking chair and grab a story book.

7:01 p.m.: Hear shrieking from the bathroom that the user needs toilet paper. Wonder for the 8,243rd time why no one checks before they go.

7:15 p.m.: Daddy's home! Give up on the toddler's bedtime.

7:30 p.m.: Stand like an ATM handing out cash as the teenagers peel away for their evening plans with friends.

8:15 p.m.: High five the daddy for finally getting the wired toddler to go to bed.

8:45 p.m.: Locate the grade schoolers playing down the street and reassure them that they really do have to come inside as it's getting dark.

9:17 p.m.: Find the bathroom a muddy, sandy, bubbly mess after baths are done.

9:45 p.m.: Agree to 15 more minutes.

10:15 p.m.: Realize it's been 30 more minutes.

10:30 p.m.: Crawl in bed and try to finish a chapter of a book.

10:45 p.m.: Kick the husband who cracks a smile and asks, "So what'd you do all day?"

11:01 p.m.: Growl at the kid who pokes you in the shoulder and proclaims, "Can we go to the movies tomorrow? It's so boring around here."

11:19 p.m.: Dream of winter and its routine, cozy evenings, and beautiful snow.